


We all want to die like movie stars, you said

by ThinkingCAPSLOCK



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThinkingCAPSLOCK/pseuds/ThinkingCAPSLOCK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strangulation is the most intimate crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We all want to die like movie stars, you said

**Author's Note:**

> For Amanda's birthday! UnU

Vriska Serket turns, a mass of orange and pixie dust spinning through your nostrils. It's as if she doesn't care about the arching coin, its spinning sides and end results. Or she already knows. You grip your sword tighter in your hand, mind blazing through greens and ends and possibilities. There are thousands and really only two ends results, her or everyone else. Another waft of blueberry and tangerine, of summer and fruit and days spent curled in a cave, counting treasure. 

The coin lands with a dull thud, and Vriska Serket bubbles out a laugh. It gurgles and tastes bitter on your tongue and smells foul to your nose, and you can just taste the grim smile and mocking stance she has, poised on the edge of the world. One big mountain of ego spilling off and rolling into the depths of space. 

You should act. A quick lunge through, one solid blow, between the ribs and just to the side of the spine. Clean and cool. Contained. You sniff deeply, scoping the view, your lungs full of smirks and orange and impatience. Vriska Serket is waiting for you, and you still haven't moved an inch. 

Her face still smells like blueberries and sun, and her smirk is so natural you almost believe you are standing with her in a field again, taunting wigglers out to fight. Her hair sticks up at the back. It is only ever flattened when she goes swimming or diving. It is wild and untamed and tangled. Her wings smell the same as her blood, though thinner and in less need of a quick bandaging before storming the next safe house. 

Something shifts in your body and your hands cease working. It is a subtle, slow movement, starting deep in your chest as you inhale dust and darkness and her, and it travels through your veins. Red clad fingers slide open. The blade clatters to the ground, the noise echoing and chipping and sorrowful. You lick your lips. You taste idiocy. 

You wait. Any moment, the tangle of sunshine and dust will float off and you'll die on the roof. There is no muscle in your body that will bend to get the weapon. It occurs to you that you are committing suicide. You sniff the blade, its cool steel frozen and glued to the ground. You cannot retrieve it. 

But Vriska Serket does not leave. Despite her grand boasts, she remains, her cherry boots firmly grounded. The blob of colour turns back to look at you. She scowls. Her impatience fills the air and your lungs burn with it, heavy and pressing against your skin. Your breaths shorten, quick and shallow. 

After a few seconds, when you are now taking fewer breaths to try and find relief, she moves. It is a long, awkward step, and after it she takes another and another. Each time her foot fall rings a little closer, her fruity clothes smell a bit brighter. Soon, she is not only your focus of attention, but also the only thing you can look at. Space dissolves behind her hair, messy and flowing. She leans in close. Her hairs tickle your forehead. 

"You're weak," she says. That is not the tone you are used to. She reserves it for those who surrendered. Vriska Serket hates weakness. "All you have to do is kill me, Redglare. Can't do it, can you?" 

"I am entirely capable! I simply do not feel like it anymore." Your lie is so disgusting, so foul, you know that even she can smell it from half a mile away. 

Her hands find their way into your hair. Her nails are sharp and scratch, but do not break skin. They trail patterns on your skull, familiar treasure maps and trap doors and dead ends. This close, Vriska Serket smells less like confidence and impatience and more like anger and confusion. Her paths on your head spiral off to nowhere. You wait for them to finish, but they never do. You frown. They always used to finish. 

She does not lean back. You do not back away either. Both your bodies refused to step apart, and the proximity was a familiar feeling of warmth. It has been a while since you and she were close at all. There had been less citrusy smells then. More blueberries and snark and winks. 

"You've never hesitated before, Redglare. I've seen you lead people to their deaths countless times. Can't get your own gloves dirty?" Her voice was high and mocking. She taunts like that. Full of bluster and hot air. You pause. All of this is so familiar, the scents and smells and feelings,and you see it as if you could still use your eyes. It is not often you think about having your vision back. Your breaths come a bit slower, still shallow, still full of dust. You try not to cough. 

"Come on, Pyrope! Do it already!" Vriska Serket snarls. You think she might spit. She often does when she gets this mad. You take a deep breath. Your mind dances with blues and oranges and that tangled mess of black, those candy corn shapes poking out in between. This should be long over by now. You sniff again. 

It isn't enough. You are far too close for it to be enough. 

Your lips crash together, though you are not sure which one of you leaned in to begin it. Her mouth is hot and warm and blue, tasting of lies and games and spit. Her hands claw into your hair, snake through your locks, and slide down your back. You grip her shirt, low and tight, stretched on tip toes. Each time she leans back you lean in more. It cannot end. When it ends, she will leave, and you will die. 

Nothing has changed. Vriska Serket is going to leave. You taste it, smell it on the edge of the air, past summer and laughter and joy, past the confusion and fear and blues and oranges, lurking in the back. The scent of need, longing. It's familiar, but strange. It isn't for you. It isn't for this kiss. She needs to prove herself. 

And you can't let her do that. 

You trail your hands up, the kiss becoming bitter and too long. Your lungs ache. You cross the bubble of yellow on her chest, the darker hues of her godhood, until you find the small, blank, asphalt sliver of her neck. You slip your fingers around, gentle, light. You feel your chest tighten. Something shifts in your body, a tremor from the gut into your heart. A sliver of will and need and the memory of your own death. It isn't the same feeling as tag teaming with her, or the same as tricking people, or the same as killing game creatures. You do not want to do it. 

But there are only two options. No matter how wonderful the smell and promise of Vriska Serket is, you know she is only thinking of herself. You squeeze. 

At first there is no indication that she notices. Your lungs need air, your nose needs a glimmer of something that isn't her. She tastes too good and too sweet. But you have to keep pressing, closing your grip, until you hear her choke and sputter as she yanks her head from yours. Her yellow eyes widen, as black liquorice pupils shrink. Your chest aches. Your heart hammers against your rib cage, pumping something hot and searing through your veins. 

Vriska Serket does not scream, claw, or struggle. You expected some resistance, some protest, but none comes. Her stare is unnerving, and you try and keep from shivering. Your red gloved fingers press deep into her skin. You feel the blood running through her veins, hear the short gasps as she tries to take in air. 

When her knees buckle and she falls you slam her down, her head crunching on the pavement beside your sword with a slap. The spot of hair on the back of her head flattens. Dark pupils dug into your head, burning into your nostrils and your mind. You sit on top of the citrus, pressing down, using your weight and heated blood to squeeze and press. You do not let go when she chokes. You do not let go when she finally gives in and flails her hand, hitting you square across the cheek. You do not let go when she stops thrashing. 

You press down harder, tighter. You squeeze her thin neck until you hear her chokes cease. And then you keep holding on. You listen to her thudding heart slow, stop. You listen as her rich blood stops flowing under your fingers, smell the colour sink out of her cheeks, taste the light and brilliance fade from her eyes. You squeeze and squeeze until you hear yourself give a choking sob as her body grows stiff beneath you. There is no more spilling ego, flowing confidence or cocky grin. Her cerulean wings are crumpled and hidden, pressed and broken under her chest. She doesn't look at you, though you smell the lemons of her open eyes, the blues of her parted lips. 

Everything swims before you in a sea of colours and snot. Gloves wipe your eyes, remove your glasses, and smooth back your hair. Your fingers shake as you close her eyes. You linger your hands on her cheeks. Teal drops stain the yellow sun on her shirt. 

You press your lips down again, hoping for one last taste, one last brush with the vibrance that you knew so well. Your teal tears taint her cheeks, her hair. But there is none of the flavour or smells you were hoping for. She is no longer blueberries or summer or rain soaked victory. She isn't the treasure hunter or the assassin or the pirate or your right hand fighter. She is not your friend or enemy or lover. Vriska Serket is just a corpse.


End file.
